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32 If someone had been watching me this morning, they would have been baffled by my behaviour. I was to be seen march- ing resolutely to the bottom of the section, a mangled dead rat in hand. I dig a shallow grave, and before interring the unfortunate rodent, I take some Tullen Snips and cut a half-inch section from the tip of its tail. On the way back to the house, I distract- edly set aside this tail section to wash my hands and the shears. And wander off to continue my day. Cut to a twenty minutes later, and the sight of sample jars on the bench next to this computer jogs my lapsed short-term memory. And so I appear back in frame on skycam (that’s if someone was filming us from the sky), confusedly searching the garden: “Now where did I put that tail?” At times I’m even on hands and knees in the driveway, searching like a police forensic team for the snippet of evidence, for maybe I dropped it there. “Nah, this is ridiculous” I appear to say by gesture. And so I am seen heading back to the grave, trowel and snips in the wind Ratman returns again in hand. I exhume the animal, and cut another section from its tail, before returning it, slightly irritatedly this time, to the ground. The tail piece I’m determined not to lose again, so it goes straight into the sample jar, making a tiny splash in the preserving fluid. For those seeking explanation, this is all in the interests of science. A university acquaintance of our in-house boffin is conducting a genetic survey of island pests, and so needs samples of tails. And I, Ratman of the Palm Beach dress circle, am happy to oblige. I can catch a rat most nights, with my sure-fire peanutbutter-on-Vogels-crust bait in the trap. It must have been a good year for rats. There are more of them around our compost bin than tourists in the summertime. (Mind you, our fancy visitor folk don’t tend to consider my fine compost-making as a compelling attraction…) But let us back up a bit, for the story of this particular rat has a midnight prequel. I am awakened from peaceful slum- ber by a concerned wife, who’s a little unsettled by the banging on the back deck. “It’s where you put your rat trap tonight,” quoth she. And, as wives do, she adds, “go attend to it.” Dining guide RESTAURANT . THE WINE BAR . CELLAR DOOR FRIDAY & SATURDAY Lunch & Wine Tastings from 12pm Degustation Dinners SUNDAY Our Italian Long Lunch DAILY Tasting & function for 10+ by appointment RESTAURANT: Lunch: Fri, Sat & Sun from 12noon Dinner: Friday & Saturday from 6pm WINE BAR open 7 Days for Lunch from 12 noon CELLAR DOOR open 7 days 11.00 to 5pm 12 Nick Johnstone Drive, Oneroa, Waiheke Island ph 09 372 5889 www.cablebay.co.nz Tel 372 2148 or email info@podericrisci. co.nz Bookings essential I grumble briefly, but do as I must. I throw on a t-shirt, fetch the axe from the garage, and head out, trouser-less (as all brave Ratmen do) to meet my adversary. “Don’t you need to dress properly?” calls my beloved after me, anxiously. “Not where I’m going, dear,” replies Ratman with admirable bravado. This rat is huge, big enough to treat the trap as an irksome earring and is flapping it around on the deck making quite a racket in the dead of night. Which is where the axe comes in. The end is merciful and swift. Pity the cameras weren’t rolling. We would have had a brief, low-budget splatter movie. It had to be done – a previous rat of similar strength had absconded with the trap and all. I leave this rat, now stilled, there for the morning. Which as we have seen, also has its share of oddity. Such is the busy life of Ratman – especially on Waiheke after this bumper breeding year. I think I’ll be busy for a while. And so I call on all husbands island- wide, firm and true, to do the same. Let’s deal to these buggers! Ratmen, unite! Now, I’d better go buy a bigger rat trap. • 21 June 2012